


Kinktober Day 10: Somnophilia

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (There Really Needs To Be a Team Switch Forever Tag), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Consent, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sleepy Sex, Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Castiel, it must be said, does not like mornings.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 35
Kudos: 236





	Kinktober Day 10: Somnophilia

**Author's Note:**

> So, okay, everyone is clearly very happy to be where they are, and very much explicitly consenting, and no-one's actually unconscious... so I guess it's not really somnophilia. My apologies in advance to anyone who's disappointed. Bear with me, my No Dubcon filter is very strong.
> 
> Once again, no beta! But at least it's not midnight!

Castiel, it must be said, does not like mornings.

Dean and Sam seem to find this very amusing, but Castiel, for all the life of him, can’t figure out what’s _funny_ about it. He sits slumped on the hard, smooth wooden bench underneath him, feeling like his back is going to bow from the feeling of being _awake_ and _upright_ and _human_.

He knows he won’t feel like this in a few hours, once caffeine and hot water and the realization that his body has weight now, not simply substance, penetrates through a mind that is millennia old and has never needed sleep before. He will be happy to be alive and aware. He will enjoy working at the animal shelter, and loving, and being loved even though he will inevitably come home from the shelter with cat hair on his clothing, and make Dean sneeze.

But he feels like it _now_.

“It’s just…” Sam’s rubbing at the crease of his lips the way he does when he is trying to quash a smile; it’s not very successful. “It’s the contrast, I guess. You used to just stand there and watch Dean _sleep_ all night.”

“Hey!” Dean objects, waving his spatula with enough determination that a bit of scrambled egg sails in Sam’s direction. Castiel observes the arc of it with dull curiosity. It doesn’t hit, and he’s no longer interested. “He used to watch both of us!”

Sam snorts. “No, Dean, he really didn’t.”

Castiel, very carefully, bows down enough to put his forehead down on the wood of the kitchen dining table, both arms curled underneath him and his forearms resting along his thighs. He’s just the right height for this, at this table. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s not _un_ comfortable, either, and it feels marginally better than being upright. He can close his eyes without being rude.

Sam _is_ correct. He really didn’t. Though Castiel didn’t realize that, at the time.

There’s a soft clink next to his ear, a vibration through the table’s surface. Castiel turns his face just enough to find that there’s a coffee mug next to his cheek, almost touching him. Its heat is radiating and pleasant, and the scent wafting towards him is bitter and fragrant and delicious. His mouth waters, and he wants it. He’s still not sure if he wants it enough to be vertical, though.

“Alright, sunshine, you gotta sit up to drink that, I ain’t gonna spoon it into your mouth,” Dean laughs. But his hand is warm resting between Castiel’s wingless shoulder blades, and it feels like sunshine. Dean’s thumb strokes gently back and forth across the bare patch just over the collar of Castiel’s loose shirt.

“There are other ways you could get it into my mouth, aren’t there?” Castiel asks, hopefully.

“ _Okay,_ I’m out of here,” Sam mutters, and he suits his long legs to his words.

The next morning is going to be a later one, though: Castiel is working on Sunday, so his upcoming Wednesday stretches empty. He thinks, as he drifts off in the darkness, Dean’s arm wrapped warmly over his waist, that he’ll work on the bunker's nascent rooftop garden tomorrow. Or, no. He promised Sam he’d catalogue. He enjoys this—more than he thought he would. His mind may not be an angel’s, anymore, but he’s found he still enjoys _knowledge_.

But he also enjoys sleeping in, and he very much plans to do so. Sam knows _very well_ not to disturb Castiel when he’s in his and Dean’s bedroom with the door closed. Even if Dean’s in there with him. ( _Especially_ if.)

Castiel drifts back upwards towards consciousness, tipping just barely out of sleep to the stir of Dean beside him. It must be too early still—and definitely too early for a day where Castiel doesn’t have to work—but Dean’s breath leaves his hair. The quiet pressure of muscle against Castiel’s body begins to untwine, like he’s afraid that he will disturb Castiel’s remaining sleep. His knee slips free from where it was lodged between Castiel’s, holding his thighs the optimum distance apart for comfortable positioning. Castiel’s legs are brushing together again, now, and that’s okay, maybe.

Maybe.

No, it’s not quite as good.

Castiel grumbles, quietly. Dean doesn’t have to go yet. He knows this, though he’s not sure how or why. Yes, Dean should stay here, where it’s warm and dark, where it’s restful. Dean has lived such a short and violent life so devoid of such comforts, and Castiel, tired as he is, can provide this one. He pulls Dean’s arm back around himself, their hands splayed together over his belly.

Dean laughs, softly, and it’s a tremor against the back of his head. “Sleepyhead,” he murmurs. “Hey.”

Castiel doesn’t know if it’s a greeting or a complaint, so he pushes his rear closer into the cradle of Dean’s hips, setting them more closely together. This would work better if it were one of the nights where he fell asleep against Dean’s back, but he didn’t, and Castiel doesn’t feel like turning over.

But Dean doesn’t leave, so Castiel knows his tactics were successful. He always was an excellent tactician.

Castiel feels the hand that Dean has on his stomach ease downwards, tickling, but it’s not the sort of tickle that would jerk him out of sleep. It’s soothing—there’s something about having that tight stretch of stomach under his bellybutton petted like this, the careful warm rasp of calluses. He will have to remember it: it feels good, he will have to try that with Dean.

His body tenses, just slightly, when Dean’s fingers tiptoe—that’s not the right expression, is it? Human language is so strange. But it’s an accurate representation nonetheless—lower.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. “Easy. Not gonna do anything you don’t want.” Fingertips coil through Castiel’s lower curls, thick and dark.

Castiel snorts, and the sarcasm of it almost bursts through the air. Of course not. Why would Dean ever think he might? “I know,” he answers. He can still roll his eyes without opening them. Then, “I’m sleepy, Dean. You can’t be mad if I fall asleep.”

Dean laughs. “Cas. No way.”

“Oh. Good,” Castiel slurs, and relaxes into the feel of his lover’s hands stroking him.

But Dean is just toying with him—weighing the lightly furred, wrinkled silk of his sack, petting with a finger up Castiel’s penis, straying down his thighs, exploring the dip of his umbilicus. There’s no acuity to it, no urgency. Castiel doesn’t even think he’s erect, but Dean doesn’t seem annoyed or offended by that.

He dozes, contented.

Castiel’s whole body gives one heavy twitch back into awareness when a warm, clever mouth envelops the entirety of Castiel’s cock. Castiel blinks his eyes open and sees nothing—room, wall, bedside table with Dean’s little bits of paraphernalia scattered over it: lamp, pictures, two witch-killing bullets, a mug of coffee he forgot to put a coaster underneath. He’s still lying on his side, and his back is cooler, now. He doesn’t see Dean, because—

Oh. Of course. Yes, blankets.

Castiel thinks he must still be flaccid—even as talented and determined as Dean is, he would not be holding _all_ of him in his mouth if he were not—but it’s comforting. It’s warm and soft, like getting into a tub after a cold day, rather than arousing—Dean’s chest pressed against Castiel’s thighs, his head unmoving. His mouth is a haven. Castiel can feel him breathing, slow and easy, and it’s strange to feel that against his pelvis, his groin. He likes it, though.

Castiel thinks he falls asleep again, comforted by Dean’s desire—the certainty of it.

When he stirs again, it’s to the feel of a warm body pressed against his back once more, and the contentment is so real that it shocks him at the crossroads of awareness and sleep, not sure which direction he wants to drive down. He grumbles, but it’s in pleasure, not complaint: he always seems cold, now that he’s human, even when he’s uncomfortably warm—human thermoregulation makes no _sense_. And yet, there’s something truly animal and strangely delightful in the warmth of another’s life against his hand, his back, his thighs, and he would not have appreciated that as an angel.

But he can feel Dean’s arousal pressed against his buttocks, tapping the small of his back. It sends a shiver of triumph through him, a spark of gold through the dull heaviness of the morning and the pressure of the world weighing on him.

“Mind if I come on you, Cas?” Dean asks, into his ear, and the whisper is almost too gentle for Cas to understanding it. “Wanna fuck between your thighs.”

He hears the word ‘fuck’ and concentrates. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Oh, _that_.

It’s a pleasant enough thing—Castiel rather likes it, truth be told. He enjoys finding out how tightly to clamp together his legs, how to part them just enough that Dean gets contact and not pressure, teasing him until Dean moans and begs for more. There is something so compelling about feeling the delicate strike of lube-wet glans against the back of his sac, motion where there should be none, or reaching down to nudge aside his own penis and scrotum so he can watch the flushed tip of Dean’s cock punching out between his legs in quick, electric little peeks.

But Castiel feels so heavy, so _relaxed_. He feels so good. He says “No.”

Dean freezes instantly behind him, but Castiel sighs in exasperation. No, no. That’s not what he meant. This would be so much easier if Dean could read his mind. Or at least his intentions. Why did his Father make humanity so obtuse? He doesn’t want to talk, but he supposes he has to.

“ _Inside_ me,” Castiel mumbles.

From ice, Dean goes slow against him, warm and poured over Castiel’s back like Castiel would be able to wear him. “Oh…” he murmurs, deep and quiet. But the tone of awe in it is like prayer. “You sure?”

The morning has Castiel, but its grip isn’t firm yet, not grasping. He rolls his hips and suspects it is embarrassingly uncoordinated. “Yes,” Castiel agrees.

Castiel’s body doesn’t always appreciate penetrative stimulation. He doesn’t have any good explanation for why that is—why the first time Dean’s finger strayed across his anus, his whole body twitched away. He wasn’t born or raised human: he has none of the nonsense preconceptions about what it socially means to be the receptive partner, though he’s read enough at this point to know that these things exist. Perhaps it’s just that his body is also so _new_ to him in some ways: he can’t always tell what feels good, and what doesn’t.

He no longer flinches when stroked, when fingered, but even now, sometimes being touched there is pleasurable, and at other times, simply strange. If they are going to indulge, it’s much more common for him to seat himself within Dean and watch in awe as his beautiful, responsive human writhes and yowls underneath him.

It's rare for Castiel to relax enough to even let Dean press into him without pain, and even when he is, he almost never stays erect through it. This doesn’t bother Castiel overmuch—he still welcomes it, invites it, even; he takes pleasure in Dean’s groans and the stutter of his hips as he moves himself within Castiel’s body.

But with sleep still fogging him at the edges, heavy and sweet, his whole body thick-witted and pliant, Castiel also feels strangely empty. Like he’d _like_ to be filled, broken, made whole.

Fucked.

Fucked until the heaviness of his limbs is electricity and he either rises from the bed or collapses under the weight of sensation, asleep again.

“You gonna move for me?” Dean asks, stroking his hip.

Castiel grumbles. Does Dean want this or not? “You ask too much.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re such a sourpuss in the mornings. I love it,” he murmurs, and Castiel knows he would never have said that if Castiel had been completely awake. He hopes he’ll remember it later. “Okay.”

Castiel is conscious of Dean’s fingers, lube-wet, skin-warm, slowly prying him open, little by little. He’s conscious of little else, but he doesn’t have to be: Dean doesn’t even move him from where he’s lying on his side. It’s morning, but it’s _their_ morning, and the pleasure is sharing its space with somnolence. Even three fingers—is it three already? Castiel doesn’t remember there being two—only feels natural, like Dean is making space for himself within Castiel’s body, not uncomfortable the way it sometimes is.

The fullness of those fingers aches, beautifully, when Dean carefully slides a hand behind Castiel’s upper knee to press it upwards—this is often where Castiel’s nerves reverberate, jitter. This is where the warm electricity of desire sometimes sends out the sharper sparks of tension. Sometimes he, frustratingly, cannot let Dean in.

But there’s no room for tension or frustration here. Dean pulls out his fingers, gently, and Castiel sighs and wants them back, but then that’s Dean’s cock pressed between Castiel’s buttocks.

Dean eases in. It’s so slow. It’s slow as sunlight used to feel, when Castiel was still an angel.

If they have to, they could do this all morning. They could wait until Castiel’s all the way asleep again, if they have to.

Surely his body would relax completely, then. Surely Dean would be able to fit himself inside.

“Jesus,” Dean whispers, sounding reverential. That’s Castiel’s favorite sound out of him. Castiel realizes that he must have spoken some of his thoughts aloud. “You’d like that? Damn, Cas.”

Castiel closes his eyes and sighs. He’s too tired to think too hard about it. “I feel good _now_ ,” he tells Dean, low and gravelly.

And he does. It feels like a craving—no, like a _stretch_ , like pointing his toes and his fingertips towards opposite walls and arching as far as his back can go—not precisely comfortable, but satisfying. He’s still on his side—has never left his side—but one of his hips is slanted forward, now, knee pulled up to his stomach, wedging a space open for Dean.

Dean fills him up, pulling and pushing, and Castiel is more awake, now—barely. He’s not awake enough that he wants to move, though, his mouth open and slack and huffing soft impact breaths as he lets Dean use him.

Dean must realize that Castiel is erect before he himself does, whispering “Oh my God,” in a low, helpless groan of delight before burying his face against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel loves that tone—the way Dean, for all his experience, still sometimes seems startled by the pleasure that Castiel’s body, weak and human though it may be now, can deliver. Dean’s hips stutter, irregular. He’s sweating, sliding close.

“Don’t make a mess,” Castiel warns. He hates the thought of having to take his own advice, though—leave the nest to get out of a pool of wet on the sheets. The memory foam mattress is molding to him just right, and he has no intentions of being driven out of it by discomfort. Not even by Dean.

Dean may not be able to read his mind, but perhaps he knows Castiel that well. The hand he has on Castiel’s hip, holding him in place, curves forward and cradles Castiel’s cock.

It's no longer soft and unthreatening, and Dean moving inside him in leisurely thrusts has made wetness pool inside his foreskin. It dribbles into Dean’s palm when Dean gently slides the soft sheath of skin back. Dean’s only holding him, not stroking, but the difference between _inside_ and _outside_ is illuminating.

Castiel would move into the thrusts as Dean fills him, again and again, but his thigh is cradled by memory foam, the rest of him pleasantly pinned, curled around himself. His body has forgotten how to rebel against the penetration, and it’s only skin and slickness and pressure, now.

Castiel doesn’t find that he enjoys prostate stimulation—disappointing, since Dean makes such delicious noises when Castiel finds his—but Dean’s not making any attempts to aim for it. The push-pull stretch at Castiel’s rim and the sense of motion and closeness and completion is… insistent.

Dean cries out behind him, quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb Castiel’s sleep, and the first of the pleasant, slow shudders curl Castiel’s toes. Dean’s grip goes firm around his cock as it starts to jerk, as Castiel’s body milks at them both. It’s a strange sensation, this orgasm.

“Oh, God,” Dean whispers. “Oh, fuck, _Cas._ ” But his brain must be working more efficiently than Castiel’s—even still chasing his own pleasure in little twitching bursts of motion, Dean remembers to place his palm over Castiel’s glans.

The orgasm lasts—dribbling through him as he spills into Dean's hand. The pulses of it are warm, almost a comfort, and satisfying, like drawing a blanket up the last few inches to his chin. Like pulling Dean closer against his stomach and slotting his thighs behind Dean’s knees when Dean hesitates, caught up in his (fairly ridiculous) desire not to admit he enjoys being the little spoon.

(Why Dean would want to conceal that, Castiel still has no idea. Being the little spoon is, to put it in Dean’s terms, awesome.)

Castiel isn’t sure when he stops coming—only that he does. He’s more tired now than he was, and sleep has him by the wrists again. When fingers press warmly to his lips, he parts them.

He knows the taste of his own semen. It’s not particularly pleasant, but he lets Dean pass it into his mouth, wipe his fingers clean against Castiel’s tongue. Dean does not pull out behind him, groaning quietly as his hips push one last time, and Castiel feels wet and full in a way he didn’t realize he might find pleasant.

It's comfortable. Comforting. Salt on his tongue, Dean in his body, the morning stretching out in front of them like a cat.

“You will get me breakfast in bed,” Castiel decides.

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” Dean promises, though a yawn interrupts the affection into ‘sweethaaaa,’ and he sounds like sleep has him, too. He kisses the back of Castiel’s head.

Castiel is asleep again before Dean’s lips have left his hair.

He does not, in general, care for mornings.

But some are much nicer than others.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Hurrah! A non-kinky Kinktober... bit of a change, I guess! I admit, I don't normally buy into the fandom favorite of Cas being Not A Morning Person, but it worked for the story.
> 
> Alright, friends: tomorrow, am I doing temperature play? Or rock and roll?


End file.
